The last post I wrote was probably before I went to the doctor; she told me to lie down on the table, and then when I was pretty naked she started giving me chores to live better.

The stress starts to accumulate throughout the weekend, and then on Sunday morning I'm crying into my salad and so homesick for the farm that I fall asleep after work thinking I've suddenly gotten in the car and driven there while I'm asleep. Let go of my jobs and let the 100-year-old farm house wash my sins away on creaky bunk-beds, and the steadfast and hearty-spiritual feeling of drinking my grandfather's coffee that has grounds in the bottom of the pot. He is blind, he doesn't know about the sediment.

"No, sorry ma'am, that patient hasn't been here since 2011, their prescription is expired," a heavy Louisiana accent comes back to me, and I realize I've been breathing heavily on hold for two minutes, and that the call is recorded. I know it will later be audited (probably by Matt) and the auditor won't know the heavier sighs are coming from the homesickness, and he won't care.

But then comes a  new  prescription, and in small, happy letters, the words Scranton, PA flash across my monitor and I have to smile. God gives you happy little things to keep going. God is the auditor hearing my sighs and knowing how many days that I'm not going to get hit by a truck that is going through a red light on my way home.

And that's enough.